Sentinel Rising: The Reardon Files #1
Page 5
Connor picked the pen back up and began a time line. First, the date Lauren went missing, two days ago now. Today’s date, the day her sister Elizabeth came to visit him and the investigation began. Four months earlier, when Jarrod transferred from CID to missing persons, and the date the money was withdrawn, the $150K.
He gazed down at his handwritten notes in the notebook, a series of straight lines and notes. So far, Jarrod had asked for a transfer, and then refinanced his home. Connor had a question mark for the possibility of Lauren having an affair. Then Lauren's call to her sister, followed by Elizabeth's follow up visit after Lauren's disappearance.
Staring at the piece of paper, nothing came to him, which was unusual. But he had begun. His gaze wandered to the second piece of paper on the desk, ready to be placed into a case file. An address for the Whitehouse family, 67 Orange Circuit, Montrose. The drive would probably take about an hour and a half each way from inner city Brunswick.
Connor grabbed his wallet and keys from the desk drawer, then stood and turned off all the office lights. He went to the bathroom, and then headed down the hall to talk to Gypsy. She sat more upright this time at the dining table, her hair across her shoulders.
"I'm off to visit Jarrod Whitehouse. He's in Montrose. It’s three hours there and back, should see you early this afternoon."
She gave him a faint smile. "Want me to come with you?"
"Not this time, but maybe for my next visit. I like having you with me, believe it or not."
She pushed herself up from the chair, walked over to him, and rested her hands on his chest. He gave him a soft kiss. Maybe they were having a moment, after all.
"See you later," he said and headed out the front door toward Black Betty, his beautiful girl, a black, hotted up 1970s Charger. He’d bought the muscle car back when money proved plentiful thanks to the insurance contact.
He threw his wallet and notepad on the passenger seat and started up Black Betty. Her engine throbbed and growled, and he thanked whoever was up there he still had her.
Since the contract work had been paused, Gypsy had suggested selling Black Betty, to which he’d replied that no one would sell his girl to pay the bills.
Black Betty, produced in the 70s in Australia as part of the VH Valiant series, was a two-door coupe and he loved the feel of her cruising, gripping the road like a sleek and powerful panther.
He'd have plenty of time to enjoy Black Betty and chew things over in his mind during the ninety-minute drive.
He reversed out of the driveway and considered his route. He'd probably have around fifteen minutes of driving in congested Brunswick traffic before he hit the freeway. It would be a straight run on the Eastlink freeway for roughly twenty five minutes before another longer drive, but in the leafy outer eastern suburbs before he reached Montrose, overall a pleasant drive.
As he drove, the tendrils of two streams of thought mingled and merged in his mind. His marriage, and the investigation into the disappearance of Lauren Whitehouse. The two subjects weren't related, but pressed on his mind with a similar degree of force. There wasn't a specific point at which his relationship with Gypsy had gone from the spark of excitement at being together to the acceptance of the domestic grind, but more a slow erosion. He wondered how to fix it. Maybe he could cook a dinner one night after Mark went to bed, with candles, flowers, and the whole bit. He smiled as he imagined the look of delight on Gypsy's beautiful face. He knew they needed to take more time out to just be together but the treadmill of life had begun just after Mark's birth which had proved overwhelming for them both. Once the rush of adrenaline wore off, the stress pushed down on him more than ever, an almost physical force.
So, of course he was worried about pissing clients off. He was the bread winner, and they needed to pay bills. Sure, Gypsy helped, and earned quite a bit, but they had a hell of a lot of bills to pay, too.
He now knew what being backed into a corner felt like. He still loved his wife, no question, but wondered if he'd need to make some grand gesture to restore equilibrium to his marriage and bring back the spark. He'd send his sister-in-law a text message, see if Leah would babysit so he and Gypsy could have a night alone together.
As far as the Whitehouse case went, he wondered if his focus on it was due to it being a potentially criminal case, a taste of his former life. With more than a decade as a cop, most people probably figured he was tougher than your average person. Although at times he wondered if tough could be debated, depending on which way the wind blew, waves of pride occasionally washed over him. He’d stuck it out with Victoria Police for a hell of a long time.
The routines and investigatory work comforted him in a way that he knew might seem strange. In times of trouble, he fell back on it like a hammock. It was a hell of a lot easier than domestic life and the pressure of bills and relationships. He'd driven automatically without too much effort before he reached the freeway exit and the reverie left him, snapping him back to reality. The in-car satellite navigation told him he'd be at the home of what remained of the Whitehouse family soon. He wondered if Jarrod Whitehouse would talk to him, most cops knew that investigators were in it for the money, and were if not the enemy, then barely tolerated. Cops were usually too busy to talk to sell outs.
Connor decided he'd begin by asking about Jarrod's work, hoping he'd reveal the reason he asked for a transfer to missing persons. He figured that Senior Sergeant Whitehouse wouldn't need much prompting to complain about his wife going missing, possibly still believing her to be alive if he were innocent. If he’d had a hand in Lauren’s disappearance, he would probably moan about something or someone else while revealing pertinent details without realising it. That’s what the guilty usually did.
He pulled up at a red light. Orange Circuit was the second on the left. The light went green, and he eased off the brake, scanning the left side of the three-lane main road in search of the street Jarrod Whitehouse lived on. It sounded affluent, but the neighbourhood itself looked like a regular middle class suburb.
The blue line on the sat nav showed him the house was close to the main road, even if Orange was a short U-shaped Circuit. He slowed, as the sterile voice of the sat nav informed him his destination was on the left. He pulled up in front of a white wooden weatherboard home, with window frames painted a dark green. The garden looked loved, the dainty white roses bordering the lawn well pruned and flowering. The grass had been recently mowed.
He turned off the ignition and got out of the car. The sun had disappeared, taking the warmth out of the air, replaced with a piercing blanket of light, with long shards streaming down from grey clouds. He walked down the concrete driveway which ran to the left of the home and stepped across a path of eight circular concrete circles toward a matching green wooden porch.
The old fashioned white door held a window on its top third, with tiny indentations carved into it, possibly to prevent curious visitors peering through. Connor rang the old-fashioned bell by moving the string to and fro, where a ball bearing clanged on the inside of a rusted bell.
He waited, alert to the sound of movement inside. He couldn’t make out any sounds, not even a television running.
He turned toward the garden, gazing at it again before scanning the driveway. No car. Maybe it was parked away safely in the lock up garage.
He turned back toward the door. With a click inside, the door slid open with a quiet creak. Then there was what he could only assume was the rather imposing figure of Jarrod Whitehouse in the doorway.
Bright blue eyes and grey stubble across a double chin combined with short wavy salt and pepper hair gave Connor the impression he was being pierced rather than looked at. The lines around the man’s eyes looked more like the circles of bark within a tree trunk than wrinkles. He wore a white t-shirt with a faded grey design on it, untucked from his jeans probably to accommodate the sagging gut hanging over them.
Connor stood up straighter. "Jarrod Whitehouse?"
"Who's asking?"
>
Connor fished in his pocket for his PI license, tucked inside a leather holder along with his driver’s license and business cards. "Connor Reardon. Private Investigator and ex CID."
"Oh, yeah."
"Can I come inside?"
"To talk about what?" Whitehouse left the front door open, but stepped through the outer fly screen door onto the porch to face him.
"Your wife, Lauren."
"Not a good time."
I bet it isn't, but the question is why.
"I'm sorry, I know this is a very difficult time. I've been engaged to find Laura."
"By who? Let me guess my outlaws think I knocked her off, right?"
It was only once Connor looked Whitehouse in the face at close range on the front porch, with natural light dominating that he realised Jarrod suffered. The toll of losing a wife and potentially bringing up a daughter alone had hit him hard.
"I don't intend to hassle you, but if we can talk inside, maybe between us we can get to the truth."
Whitehouse hung his head and stared at the dried gum leaves skimming across the wooden porch floor. Connor wondered if he'd let him in. He hadn't exactly told him that his sister-in-law, Elizabeth Metcalfe, had engaged his services.
"I already know the truth." Whitehouse shuffled his feet before meeting his gaze. "All right but not long. Five minutes."
He pulled open the fly screen door and held it open for Connor, who followed behind. The floor of honey brown wood ran the length of the hallway. Most of the doors leading off it were closed. Whitehouse eventually slowed down at the end of the hallway where he gestured toward a couch of indeterminate colour and texture, due to the wash of multi-coloured rugs strewn across it. Connor sat and waited until Jarrod composed himself. It took almost a minute before Whitehouse met his gaze again.
"What filth have you heard from Liz, then? Other than me killing off my wife, leaving my daughter without a mother, what else have I supposedly done?” Sun streamed through a window and Whitehouse squinted before propping his left ankle across his right knee.
"I'm actually trying to find Laura, so any information you have about her movements before she left would help." Connor told himself it wasn't a lie, and putting Jarrod’s back up would get him nowhere.
Whitehouse turned his head and pushed out a sharp flow of breath. "I wondered if something was up a couple of months ago, but I don't know, as usual, I was distracted by work. She made more of an effort with her looks, new hair, new nails, the whole thing. Usually she wasn't so worried, but three months before she left, I noticed it."
"Did you ask her about it?"
"What, if she was having an affair? No, I didn't." Whitehouse frowned. "At first, I was relieved she'd turned a corner. We'd been at each other’s throats, and I’d had enough. We talked about separating, then suddenly she changed. I was relieved the fighting stopped. She started going out more, at first to visit friends, then she couldn't tell me who the friends were, now this..."
"Any ideas who she may have left with?"
"I'd love to know." Whitehouse spoke through gritted teeth. "Her phone’s not answering, goes straight to voice mail. Some of her clothes are gone. Her handbag, wallet, and phone are gone."
"Is that her car outside?"
"Yeah. She didn't take it, which is weird." The older man rubbed at his chin.
Connor wondered if the slight tremor in Whitehouse’s fingers indicated nerves or grief.
"It does seem unusual." He could ask about the daughter later in the conversation, if Jarrod let his guard down. "You didn't report her as missing?"
Jarrod's jowls wobbled as he pushed himself up from a reclining position in the chair. "Listen, you don't know what it's been like. Do you have kids?"
"I do, a son," Connor said quietly.
He wondered if the detonated fuse on Jarrod's volatile emotional state would explode or simply subside.
"How the hell do you think it feels to tell a ten-year-old girl that Mummy's left and you don't know when she's coming back?" His shoulders curled, and he brought a shaking hand to his forehead. "I've stayed strong. How I'm doing isn't important compared to a little girl’s tears."
"I can't imagine what that's like." Connor sat forward on the edge of the couch, resting his forearm on his knee.
Whitehouse rubbed his hand across his face. "She's staying with her grandma for a couple of days, just while I get things together a bit..."
"You didn't report your wife as missing?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake!" The couch creaked as Jarrod jumped up and began pacing, breathing noisily. "How would you do if your wife left you?"
Connor wondered if Elizabeth Metcalfe had reported her sister as missing officially, and if so, if Jarrod had been notified. Connor crossed his arms. "I don't know how I'd go, but I do know this. You either talk to a private investigator, or you talk to police once a missing person's report is filed. I know which I’d prefer."
Jarrod Whitehouse stopped pacing and turned to glare at Connor, hands on his hips and chin thrust out. "Piss off! Get out of my house!"
Blood boiled in his face, the veins in his neck pronounced. He pointed, his right arm ramrod straight, down the hallway toward the front door.
Connor stood up. "Like I said, I'm interested in the truth, wherever that takes me. At some point, you will need to explain the hundred and fifty thousand refinance. Did Laura know about that?"
Jarrod took a step forward. "Get out of my home now, Get out!"
Globules of spittle perched on his lips and chin.
Connor turned and walked down the hallway, shoes clicking on the bone-dry polished floorboards. Jarrod Whitehouse continued ranting from the lounge room.
Connor turned the latch on the front door, opening it quietly, and stared down the hallway before he closed it behind him. Whitehouse was in a fit of rage, purple mottled face and bulging veins.
Shit.
Connor pulled the door closed. Time to get out of there and follow up the next lead.
#
Chapter 4
Connor hadn't had a chance to ask why Whitehouse requested a transfer from CID to Missing Persons. The man was a powder keg, and he'd just lit the fuse.
On the drive home, Connor wondered what he could have done and said differently. Most likely nothing. Jarrod Whitehouse had lost a wife. His emotions were frayed and ready to explode, a barrel of fireworks waiting to be lit. Either he didn't want to talk about his wife leaving him for another bloke, or he really did have a shit load of baggage he couldn't or wouldn't face.
On the drive home, Connor frowned at the road and considered his options. He could call Elizabeth and ask more questions, which might open new possibilities, or dig further into the Whitehouse family’s financial affairs, or hunt down clues to Laura’s secret lover, if one existed. Possibly at her workplace.
As most detectives knew, the obvious path was usually the most fruitful one. Money, lust, jealousy, power, and vengeance could turn a seemingly regular person into a raging lunatic, capable of serious injury and in some cases, murder. He just needed to find the frayed thread, the point at which Jarrod and Lauren's seemingly stable middle class lives had unravelled.
He'd revisit the time track of events and assess from there.
He wanted to talk to Gypsy, to hold her. During intense, complex investigations, she'd always been a stable presence. He couldn't wait to see her.
Maybe Leah Gypsy’s sister could look after Mark, and he and Gypsy could have a night out together, dinner or a movie. Maybe both.
He slowed the car and pulled into his lane, which thankfully wasn't jam packed with vehicles parked along both sides of the narrow street due to being an inner-city street with narrow houses squeezed together. Not today though. Sighing and running hands through his hair, He got out and locked the car.
As he walked along the short footpath to the front steps, Gypsy opened the fly screen door.
She murmured, "There's a guy waiting for you in the street."
Connor climbed up the steps and reached for the front screen door.
The blow to the back of his head came without warning. He let go of the door, and the world spun. Gypsy screamed his name from inside the hallway. His head hurt like hell, and his eyes flickered closed. He pushed against the desire to fall and failed. The world faded to grey, and he pushed against the greyness to stay in the present. He thrust out his hands which broke his fall as he landed on the concrete porch. He struggled against the hazy wash of unconsciousness. He knew if he succumbed to blackness the enemy behind would either beat him to a pulp or kill him.
A kneecap jammed into Connor's spine. Connor tilted his body to the right. The knee on top of him compensated by shifting its weight to the left. Connor pushed up with his hands and rolled back his right shoulder. The weight of the faceless man rolled off his back.
In the split second that the dark-haired mass of arms and legs attempted to get up, Connor was over him. He thrust his forearm around the man’s throat. He squeezed and a gurgle emerged from the man’s mouth, along with a cascade of spittle. Gritting his teeth, Connor pulled upward and dragged the man to his feet.
Adrenaline surging, Connor rammed the man's head into his office window at full force. He gritted his teeth as the glass shattered. The man groaned, his head bleeding. His arms still around the man's throat, Connor twisted his body and smashed the stranger’s head against the window ledge. The body went limp. Connor let it fall to the ground.
Out of breath, Connor leaned forward, his hands on his thighs.
Gypsy was out and down the front steps, “Oh, my god, who the hell is that?"
Connor couldn't speak, still out of breath and struggling to process what in the hell had just happened. He straightened up and turned to look at her.